by Mary Daheim
“Explain first what you’ve done with my mother,” Judith said, shooing Sweetums off of the counter as she reached for a bottle of Gibson’s Canadian.
“Simple,” Renie said. “Before we left the toolshed, I called a couple of the other old girls from the SOTS bridge group and asked if they wanted to come to my mother’s place tonight. I promised them Chocolate Decadence. They were delighted. Mary Anne Colpecchia still drives, so she’s picking up Theresa McCoy. I finally got your mother out of here, stopped at Falstaff’s to get the party dessert—which set me back fifteen bucks, I might add—and we went on to Mom’s. It only took me ten minutes to escape from her apartment. Happily, Mom and Aunt Gert got into an argument about whether Mary Anne was legally blind and if Theresa had booze in her cough-syrup bottle. I crept out while they were going at it. But Mom already had dinner cooking, so all should be well.”
“Mother’s spending the night?”
“Yes.” Renie grinned. “They can torture each other instead of us.”
Judith bodily removed Sweetums, who had jumped back on the counter. “I’m glad. Mother doesn’t like to leave the toolshed, no matter how much she complains about it, but the change will do her good.”
“No, it won’t,” Renie said, pouring some 7-Up into the whiskey Judith had handed her. “But we can pretend. Tell me what I’ve missed.”
It didn’t take Judith long to relate the conversations with Estelle and Suzanne. “The way Elsa stated that Rudi wasn’t Fritz’s father was like a victory cry.”
Renie looked thoughtful. “The usual suspect, Dolph?”
Judith stood up to refill her drink. She poured out only half a measure of scotch, thinking she must be more upset than she realized. She’d certainly downed the first cocktail in record time.
“It’d fit, given Dolph’s alleged track record,” Judith said, trying to avoid Sweetums, who was weaving in and out between her feet. “Maybe Suzanne feels she and Fritz belong together because they don’t fit in with the rest of this crew. Both were raised in musical families. Blake Farrow’s company made musical instruments, Andrea was always active in the social whirl of music, and then she married Dolph, a revered figure in that world. Rudi was one of Dolph’s protégés and Elsa had been his student. Suzanne and Fritz don’t seem to give a hoot about music.”
Renie’s expression was skeptical. “Suzanne couldn’t find some other guy more her age who didn’t care for music, either?”
“I wonder if she ever looked,” Judith said. “Her life has been very narrow.”
“True. Sad.” After a pause, Renie changed the subject. “Do you think Elsa smashed up Taryn’s piano?”
Judith had sat down again at the table, but she glanced at Sweetums, who was still weaving around the floor. “It had to be either Elsa or Suzanne,” she responded. “Unless—” She stopped and shook her head. “I can’t think why Rudi or Taryn would do it. Fritz, of course, is a possibility. But my point is that Suzanne and Fritz feel like outsiders. Estelle told me that. Somehow, Suzanne wants to create a family unit where she feels she belongs. Fritz is apparently the way she figures she can belong.”
“I wonder if the feeling is mutual,” Renie mused.
“He may be in it for the money,” Judith said. She was still watching Sweetums, who continued to bob and weave, though more slowly, as if he were a toy running low on batteries. “What’s wrong with that cat? Now he’s acting odd.”
“Did you feed him?”
“Yes, right after I took the tray upstairs to Estelle and Suzanne.” She watched the cat’s big orange-and-white body wobble and waver, as if the floor were greased. “That’s all I need—a sick cat.”
Sweetums collapsed on his side, a couple of feet from Renie’s chair. “You’re right—he’s definitely not well,” Renie said. “Stay put, I’ll see if he’s…uh…alive.”
As Judith held her breath, Renie got down on the floor and gently touched the cat. Sweetums didn’t move. His eyes were closed, though he was still breathing. She leaned closer. And gasped.
“Your cat’s not sick, coz. He’s drunk. I smell scotch on his breath.”
Judith jumped out of the chair. “Oh, for…No wonder my drink disappeared so fast! He was guzzling it off of the counter!” She stared at the unconscious animal. “What should we do?”
Renie shrugged. “Let him sleep it off. He’ll probably have a hangover when he wakes up.” She grimaced. “I don’t want to be around when that happens. His disposition is terrible when he’s sober.”
Judith kept watching the cat. He certainly didn’t appear to be in any distress. In fact, she could have sworn he was smiling in his sleep.
“Let him be,” Renie said, sitting down again. “He couldn’t have drunk very much. He’s not puking.”
Judith looked at her glass. “Gack! I’ve been drinking out of this! Cat germs! I’ll probably be the one who throws up!” She grabbed the glass, reached around to the sink, and poured the contents down the drain. “I’m starting over.”
“Clarence has never taken a drink in his life,” Renie said as Judith got a fresh glass out of the cupboard. “Bunny lips that touch liquor will never touch mine.”
“Double gack,” said Judith. She was getting ice out of the refrigerator when she heard someone moving around upstairs. “Suzanne,” she murmured. “I guess she recovered enough to exercise.”
Renie gazed at the ceiling. “That doesn’t sound like a workout to me. It’s got no rhythm.”
Judith listened. The noise had stopped. “Damn,” she swore under her breath. “I’d better go see what she’s up to.”
“I’ll come with you,” Renie volunteered.
The cousins trooped up the back stairs. Suzanne was nowhere in sight, but the door to her room was open. One glance told Judith that the young woman wasn’t there. All the other guest-room doors were closed. Judith was about to check the bathroom between Room Four and Room Three when Renie stopped her.
“I think I heard something downstairs,” she whispered.
Judith hurried out of the bedroom. “She must have gone down the front stairs while we were coming up the back way.”
Renie led the way to the main floor. Judith was flagging. She had overdone it, sapping her strength and making her hip ache more than it had in months. She had only two guests, but they were too much. She felt like collapsing along with Sweetums.
The front door was open. Renie was already outside. Judith heard her voice—and Suzanne’s.
“You can’t stop me,” the younger woman said. “I have a ten-thirty flight to New York. My town car will be here any minute.”
“What about your mother?” Renie was saying as Judith came outside. “You can’t leave her here in the morgue.”
“Why not? She often left me alone,” Suzanne replied bitterly. “She was always busy with her charities and benefits—or she was sick.”
Judith approached Suzanne warily, noticing that she had not only her own luggage, but her mother’s as well. “I don’t think leaving is a good idea,” she said softly. “The police won’t like it.”
“The police!” Suzanne hooted with laughter. “They think I killed my mother? Or Dolph? That’s crazy! Mom killed herself!”
“You mean,” Judith said, “she overdosed on purpose? That’s a terrible thought!”
“No, it’s not.” Suzanne looked at Judith as if she must be stupid. “She couldn’t live without Dolph. Or her guilt.”
“What guilt?” Judith asked.
Suzanne didn’t answer. It was raining again, a steady drip that splashed in small puddles along the edge of the cul-de-sac. There was wind, too, blowing up from the bay. Judith was cold. She shivered and repeated the question: “What guilt, Suzanne?”
The young woman peered into the darkened night, apparently watching for headlights. “Does it matter?”
“Yes,” Judith said.
Suzanne shrugged. “I don’t think it does now.”
“You’re wrong,” Judith said, urgency
in her voice.
“Mom’s dead,” Suzanne said flatly. “What difference does it make? Especially to you.”
A car turned around the corner, headlights glowing in the rain as it slowly entered the cul-de-sac.
Judith put a hand on Suzanne’s arm. “Then why can’t you tell me about her guilt? Did she poison Dolph?”
Suzanne laughed. “Of course not!”
The car, which was indeed a black limo sedan, stopped at the curb in front of Hillside Manor. Suzanne hoisted the luggage strap of a fold-over onto her shoulder as the driver got out.
“Then what?” Judith urged, tightening her grip on Suzanne’s arm.
“Ohhh…” Suzanne pulled away, not angrily, but firmly. “She didn’t kill Dolph. But she did kill my father. Good-bye, Mrs. Flynn.”
She walked down the front steps and headed toward the town car.
TWENTY-TWO
RENIE REPORTED THAT Estelle was still alive and snoring. “I opened the door to Room One just enough so that I could see she was breathing.”
“Thank goodness,” Judith said, leaning against the newel post of the front stairs. “And thanks for saving me another trip up those stairs. I couldn’t help but wonder if…well, you know.”
Renie did know and gave her cousin a sympathetic look. “Too bad you can’t put Sweetums in bed with Estelle. They could sleep it off together.”
Judith’s smile was weak. “I’ve got to call Rosemary,” she declared. “The police can stop Suzanne at the airport.”
“Aren’t you glad to be rid of her?” Renie asked as the cousins went back into the kitchen. “And aren’t you aware that I’m so hungry I could eat your drunken cat?”
Dialing Rosemary’s cell number, Judith told her cousin to warm up her dinner in the microwave. “It may be dried out by now,” she cautioned. “Add water to the—Rosemary? This is Judith. I wanted to let you know that Suzanne just left for the airport.” She gave the detective the flight time, adding that Suzanne might be accompanied by Fritz Wittener. “I assume,” Judith added, “you don’t want them leaving town.”
“I’d prefer that they didn’t,” Rosemary allowed. “But legally, there’s no reason she—and he—can’t go. I’ll see what I can do.”
After she disconnected the call, Judith gazed down at Sweetums, who was still sleeping peacefully by the kitchen table. “When Estelle comes to she’ll be furious to find out Suzanne has left.”
Renie had dished up dinner for both cousins and was waiting for the microwave signal. “Give her some more brandy. Then she can pass out again.”
“She’s certainly not used to—” Judith snapped her fingers. “I almost forgot! It was the brandy.” She sat down as Renie put the warmed-over plates on the table. “Remember when Elsa fainted?”
“Of course.”
“She drank brandy as well as cognac,” Judith said. “Fritz poured her the wrong stuff. What if the rhubarb was in the brandy?”
“The poisonous distillation, you mean? Wouldn’t the lab report have shown how the poison was ingested?”
“I’m not sure,” Judith admitted. “It may be possible with modern toxicology to pinpoint the food or drink that contained the poison. But Rosemary says she doesn’t have the tox report back yet. That’s odd.”
Renie stuffed her face with chicken and rice. “Yopoy?”
“My point is that Elsa didn’t drink much brandy,” Judith replied, “but Dolph gulped down quite a bit. Andrea mentioned at the time that it was his cure-all of choice. Gregory and Estelle said the same thing.”
“Ah.” Renie swallowed. “So you’re saying that the creation of a crisis would force Dolph to gulp down the poisoned brandy.”
Judith nodded. “Exactly. Elsa’s collapse was sufficient to set him off. In fact, it may have been his second crisis of the day. He was upset after his first visit with Rudi. I’ll bet that’s when Dolph learned the violin bow had gone missing. But who set him up at the party?”
“Estelle and Gregory weren’t around,” Renie pointed out, “although they might have managed it.”
“That’s the problem,” Judith said. “All the liquor that was bought for the party and delivered by Fritz supposedly arrived here unopened. But we don’t know that for sure.”
Renie looked thoughtful. “Do you think Andrea overdosed—or poisoned herself with that same rhubarb stuff?”
“I don’t know what to think,” Judith said, “since the statement was made by Suzanne. What does she mean by saying that her mother killed her father, Blake Farrow?”
“Are we sure Blake was her father?”
“Are you kidding? With this bunch, we can’t be sure of anything.” Judith sighed. “I honestly think that Gregory may have escaped from the booby hatch. Remember that slip of the tongue by Olive?”
“About Gregory going back to the home?” Renie nodded. “That may be why you couldn’t find him in the phone book or anywhere else.”
“That makes sense,” Judith said, “if any of this does.”
“So who’s Frederica?” Renie asked.
Judith waited until she’d finished eating some broccoli. “You saw her in the fireplace. According to goofy Gregory, she was his mother, who was Olive’s sister.”
“Maybe her name wasn’t really Frederica,” Renie remarked.
Judith looked up from her plate. “What makes you say that?”
Renie grinned slyly. “You’re not the only one who can have sudden insights and inspirations. Ever hear of Fort Frederica in Georgia?”
“No,” Judith replied. “What is it?”
“A national park,” Renie replied. “I came across it a couple of years ago when I was doing research for a travel brochure. Back when I had work.” She grimaced. “Anyway, it was built in the 1730s to protect the southern boundary of the Georgia colony from Spain.”
“So?”
“So I remember weird things,” Renie said. “The name of the colony’s founder was Oglethorpe. Just like Olive’s last name.”
Judith regarded Renie with interest. “Olive mentioned that her platter came from England and that her ancestors were distinguished. I wonder…”
Renie shrugged. “It may not mean much, though.” She gobbled up more food.
For a few moments, the cousins ate in silence, broken only by Renie’s customary slurping and chomping.
“I’m still curious,” Judith finally said, “as to what Suzanne meant about Andrea killing Blake Farrow. I assume she didn’t mean literally. You know how people make such remarks.”
Renie nodded. “What they mean—like in this instance—is that Blake didn’t really want to go on the foxhunt that day, but Andrea insisted. Or he never cared for foxhunting, but she enjoyed the prestige of belonging to an elite hunt club.”
“Yes,” Judith agreed. “It could even be that the foxhunt had nothing to do with it. That is, Andrea’s spending habits or her pill popping or some other thing she did made him reckless. Anyway, Suzanne’s unbalanced, so I’m not putting a great deal of stock into what she said about her parents.”
“I suppose that’s smart,” Renie allowed. “I’m trying to remember the details from when I listened in on your conversation with Rosemary. The guy who was fiddling with Blake Farrow’s books at the musical-instrument company went to prison and died there, right?”
Judith nodded. “I jotted down some notes. I think they’re in the drawer by the phone base.” She got up and went to the counter by the computer. “I only wrote down basic facts. Let me see…Gosh, my handwriting’s deteriorating.”
“We’re deteriorating all over,” Renie said drily as Judith sat down.
“Here’s what I’ve got,” Judith said, reading the fragments aloud. “‘Foxhunt, New Jersey, fall.’ I assume that means the time of year, not what happened to Blake. ‘B rides all’…No, that’s ‘off,’ not ‘all.’” She paused, trying to read the next words. “I think it says ‘Andrea and MH’—that must be master of the hunt—‘ahead of B.’”
“
So far so good,” Renie put in. “I recall most of that.”
Judith scanned the last of her notes. “‘Instruments,’ ‘cooked books,’ ‘Chandler,’ ‘C’s knife’…no, that’s ‘wife’…‘died in prison,’ ‘old money,’ ‘German co.’” Judith shrugged. “That’s it.”
Renie frowned. “What does ‘sees wife’ mean? I don’t remember.”
“That’s cap ‘C’s wife,’” Judith corrected. “Blake was riding with Chandler’s—the embezzler’s—wife, whose name was…Laura? Lorene?”
Renie stood up, leaned across the table, and peered through the kitchen window. “No. It was…Laurel.” She pointed outside. “Like Rankers’s hedge.”
“That’s right,” Judith agreed. “Laurel Chandler was lucky she couldn’t keep up with Blake or she might have gotten killed, too. The crucial part is how Andrea and the hunt master could’ve ridden that same route and not been harmed. Of course I don’t know much about foxhunting. Maybe the riders don’t follow the exact same route.”
“Maybe not,” Renie acknowledged, leaning back in her chair. “The few times I went riding, I let the horse go wherever it wanted. I rarely argue with anybody or anything that’s ten times bigger than I am.”
“Back up,” Judith said suddenly.
“My horse wouldn’t do that, either,” Renie said.
“No,” Judith contradicted. “I mean to that Chandler woman’s name. Laurel, right? What would be a good name for Laurel’s sister?”
Renie made a face. “Coral?”
“No.” Judith’s smile was sly. “How about Olive?”
Renie considered. “Ah. Olive wreath, laurel wreath. Parents who were into Greco-Roman—or they just liked shrubs.” She slapped the table. “You’re onto something, coz.”
“But where’s it taking us?”
“Be like me on the horse—hang on and see where it goes.”
Judith shook her head. “If Olive’s sister was Laurel Chandler, what happened to her?”
“Didn’t somebody say Olive’s sister died?”
“That’s right,” Judith replied. “Should I call Rosemary to see if she can check it out?”